An idea for a rainy day
Any bad habit that instinctively "wants" to persist even after decades of running is worth mentioning
During a late-afternoon easy run on Thursday, I was caught in a rainstorm. I had known when setting out that there was, according to websites, at least a 70 percent chance this would happen, so I had put on my Red Sox hat and my shittiest pair of shoes—as always, the latter involved a judgment call—for the occasion. (The previous sentence exposes the one before that as a lie, albeit one I am borrowing rather than inventing; I wasn’t “caught in” a rainstorm, I went outside knowing I would probably get wet thanks to atmospheric fluid shifts and then got wet.)
Because the temperature was in the low seventies (about twenty-two degrees in un-American units), nothing about this was traumatic. And my memories of wandering around drunk in the middle of the night in rainstorms in far colder temperatures, with only bad places to wander from there, are well over six years old, but still acute enough so that I treat being the “victim” of a July shower as a genuine love affair with Mother Earth and life itself.
But it was breezy, and when the rain started, it didn’t start gradually, it started pouring, right as I turned into the wind. My first reaction, despite not being remotely uncomfortable, was to tense my shoulders and generally form a more rigid drivetrain. I’m sure this is every sober runner’s natural tendency when the immediate environment suddenly changes in a way the deepest and oldest parts of our brains cannot help but interpret as “Threat coming, seek shelter,” even when our forebrains enact an immediate conscious override by reminding the CPU that we’re only playing around.
Had I passed a parked and apparently empty car and the vehicle had emitted an unexpected honk, or if a mostly nude Sarah Rafferty1 had leaped out of it, I would have tensed up in the same way, but more quickly; I would have corrected apace for any sudden unhelpful decibel-related or redhead-caused muscle contractions and continued on my way, not letting the delayed-onset norepinephrine rush disrupt my again-relaxed (considering the source) form. But when something happens that effects a less obvious-to-sensors failure of relaxation, and my mind becomes focused on the newly presented environmental concern, I might not notice that I am still running with shoulders drawn almost imperceptibly inward and upward, which initiates a cascade of wayward movements that sap my running economy.
If I am out on an easy run, this doesn’t really matter. But yesterday’s episode reminded me of the times I can recall clear quiet skies unloading on me during a race—one was during a late-March 20-miler in New Hampshire, which was grim indeed—and invited me to remember how I responded to these in real time. I honestly couldn’t and cannot remember, but I know what I should have done, and that is consciously run almost like a marionette controlled by hyperelastic strings for a few seconds. That is, I should have made an effort to simply pretend that nothing had happened. The utility of this trick, as it happens. persists into the present.
After all, what is the point of bracing myself when I’m already as wet as I’m going to get and I’m certainly not going to develop hypothermia? (None of what I’m writing in this post applies to ultramarathon runners. For one thing, no one is better at relaxing on the run than someone who knows he or she will be out on the course for a minimum of, say, twelve hours. For another, it’s well known that over 80 percent of committed ultramarathoners ultimately succumb to snake bites, dehydration, mighty bear-paw swipes, overhydration, skunk attacks, covid, euhydration, dopers, sniper fire, “dud”-caliber cluster bombs, or a paucity of feminine-hygiene products on aid-station tables. Rain isn’t even a thing for this crowd.)
If there is an analog to this situation, it might be the tendency to speed up when suddenly swarmed by stinging or biting insects other than mosquitoes. If you’re running relaxed at 8 miles per hour (3.58 m/s) and understandably speed up to 10 MPH (4.47 m/s) in an effort to escape some horseflies, the insects won’t even notice and your only reward will be feeling more tired when one of the undeterred fuckers removes a chunk of skin from the nape of your neck (or ideally, that of anyone running alongside or just behind you).
It’s the same deal with other problematic environmental issues. Other than those that clearly impose physical changes requiring mechanical, kinesthetic, or other adjustments, such as a strong wind or unexpected ice- or mud-patch, your best bet is to play the abysmally stoned stoic and disallow your cerebellum and its partners to compel modifications to the vertical (usually) chassis.
On a less didactic note, when the rain was caught in me yesterday, I had a shirt on. I was glad for this, because I was wearing the one pair of shorts I own that wick up so much moisture that they risk getting me arrested for indecent public obscene exposure or whatever the statute is. Having on a T-shirt that hangs sufficiently low, at least when also soaked, kept me from breaking any known laws out there, and besides, no one else was in sight and there were few cars on the road.
One time, while running in Sarasota, Florida in an even more compromising pair of shorts, I caught myself an early-afternoon thunderstorm, and this time I was not wearing a shirt. It was also around ninety degrees and humid. I was about two miles from home, and for the entire fifteen minutes or so I would have heard the theme song from Curb Your Enthusiasm blaring away in my head had I known about the show at the time (this was in the summer of 2008).
I’m sure every male runner has experienced the formation of a sopping-wet moose-knuckle that can only be solved by starkly modifying the position of whatever shorts are caught in the “knuckle” or removing them entirely. No doubt Eliot Page has a few wild stories about her junk becoming potentially visible to others when she’s wearing ill-chosen running shorts, and she probably jokes about the parallel phenomenon in women going by the name “cameltoe.”
When stricken in Sarasota on that terrible day fifteen years ago, I wasn’t on some side street in East Boulder but on the Tamiami Trail, basically Sarasota’s main drag. And people stay outside in Florida no matter how rainy it is, and they stare openly at you too, because that’s the kind of place Florida just is. I got into people-watching while serving my time in that superheated bog, too.
I had two choices that day: Run (or walk) while holding the “cuffs” of the shorts outward with each thumb and forefinger, essentially creating a tent, or just pretend I didn’t notice and keep moose-knuckling along while trying to remember if I would be passing any elementary schools. I wound up alternating helplessly between the two, thereby drawing more attention than I would have had I selected one method alone, and hoping it would start raining so hard that no one, including me, could see more than five feet beyond the tip of his…nose.
I don’t think men experience this issue as often now that so many regularly run in half-tights. Regardless, it’s not as vital to remember as consciously forcing yourself to relax when running hard and it starts pouring. And maybe carry an oversized T-shirt in your hand if you insist on running bare-torso(e)d and there is a reasonable chance of significant precipitation.
Suits is a far better show than I anticipated it would be, as I find most legal dramas boring or otherwise banal after one season (or less).